On the thirtieth of September I heard a meadow lark singing -- There was frost on the flat and the elm by the house was bare: "Victory! Victory! Victory!" high he was ringing, Between two stubble fields, holding his plow to the air. "Vireo, thistle bird, mourning dove, follow the flying Tide of the sun to its new beaches. Old fields are sown. Leave me my dream, my cold shore where no shadow is crying @3Reap;@1 for the weed is my weed and the stone is my stone. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONG OF THE WAVE by ROBERT FROST SOMEBODY LOVED ME by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DEAF HOUSE AGENT by KATHERINE MANSFIELD DOMEDAY BOOK: JOHN CAMPBELL AND CARL EATON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE LAKE BOATS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |